


Private Session

by MadameFolie



Series: Extra Training [1]
Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: F/M, First Time, Loyalty Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-25 18:54:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4972477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameFolie/pseuds/MadameFolie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sigrun's right-hand warrior has a particularly sensitive favor to ask.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Private Session

**Author's Note:**

> Let's pretend that somehow this is happening at Dalsnes so they have privacy, safety, and access to medical-mage-manufactured birth control. Okay? Okay.

Oh, wow, he's totally serious. Like, can't-meet-her-eyes-and-now-he's-going-to-slap-his-hands-into-his-face-like-he-wants-to-disappear serious. She tries peering around his hands to get a look at what's going on, but no. He's got good coverage going on there. Huh.

  
"Hey, there's nothing to be ashamed of," Sigrun tells him. No judgment. Wouldn't be the first time something like this's come up in the course of a mission. "It happens when you spend enough time doing dangerous work with someone. Pretty normal, actually."

 

"Just let me die," Emil groans. "I shouldn't have said anything." Yeah, well, regret's not really a good quality to foster in a promising warrior. She tries to pry one of his hands free so she can at least talk this one out. Why do the young ones have to be so melodramatic?

 

"I mean, do you want me to say no? Would that make you feel better?"

 

"Yes! I think! Just don't hate me-- gods, you probably hate me now--" Oh, for. This isn't even worth getting hysterical over.

 

"And if I say yes?"

 

"It'll be humiliating!"

 

"Even if I want to." That gets his hands to pull back. He peers out at her over his fingertips. They're still curled like he might dive behind them again the first chance he gets.

 

"But you don't! And now I ruined everything."

 

"Emil. Emil, shut up and listen to me for a second, would you?" It's harsher than she needs to be but it does the trick. Humiliated or not, his body snaps to attention having heard the order. His hands fall, not to his sides but curled, in front of his chest. Close enough. She stands up, setting the knife polishing set she's been working on aside. She takes his chin between two fingers, turning his face one way and then the other. Long, sturdy features, even skin, bright eyes. His breath comes abbreviated --stilted-- under her scrutiny, she notices.

 

"I'm surprised. A good-looking guy like you? I would've thought you could take your pick of partners, if you wanted." His eyes cast to the side and down.

 

"I...didn't want to, before now," he admits. His voice is soft. That's fair.

 

"You do now." She leaves it open-ended, half an affirmation, half a question. This way he can take it however he needs to so that this conversation gets had.

 

".....it doesn't really matter when. I just, you're so--" The words can't seem to come to him. "It'd be an honor," he offers at last.

 

"Good man." She presses her lips to his forehead. "Come by tonight after dusk report, I've got private quarters. We'll have us some fun."

 

* * *

  
It wasn't a lie, it really does happen a lot. The assurance of dying without regrets has been known to give her trollhunters all kinds of newfound courage. And when tomorrow might bring a bloodied, misshapen maw closing around your throat, well. What's a little fear of "no"? That doesn't seem to be the case here, though. Curiosity maybe. Could even be plain old want. Either way she doesn't mind. She's taught him to fight like a born hunter, it'll be a pleasure to teach him this, too. She barely hears his knock on her door the first time. One little rap so quiet it could be a kicked-up pebble, and then silence. She pauses while stripping off her boots to listen and gets as far as her socks and top before the second knock comes.

 

"Captain?" he asks, like it could be anybody else in the officers' barracks.

 

"Hey," she says, and steps aside to let him in. He gives her a shaky smile.

 

She knew he's got the makings of a great soldier. He takes orders like a commander's dream. It's off to a bumpy start when he's standing there next to the bed with her and twiddling his thumbs like a damn fool. But soon as she steps up into his space and tips his chin up so she can bring his lips to hers, well. That she can work with.

 

"Tell me what kind of foundation I've got, here," she starts, a breath away from him. "Kissing. You've done that?" He begins to nod but catches himself quickly enough that nobody winds up with a bloody nose.

 

"Yes, I-- yes. I'm...kind of. Rusty. But yes." Rusty doesn't even begin to cover it. He's rusty as all hell but since he takes cues so nicely it's easy enough to smooth things over. He follows her lead, letting her be the first to bring teeth into it. Even gives when she slips into his mouth to feel him from within. He likes that. His fingers tighten a moment on her waist and go slack, trembling. She cradles the back of his head in the palm of her hand to keep him good and steady.

 

"Relax," she whispers. "I've got you." He keens, and yields to her guidance.

 

They end up taking it to the bed pretty quick. They're both still mostly dressed when she pulls him onto her hips. "C'mon," she says, pushing up his training tunic. "Off. Lemme see." Red blooms across his cheeks and up to his ears, but the tunic comes off, anyway. Why he's embarrassed is anyone's guess. He's as pleasing to look at below as he is above and Sigrun devotes a couple of minutes to feeling out the curvature of his shoulders, the firm muscle of his back. He's a fledgling warrior yet, but his training shows under her hands. She'd bet with some practice he'll be formidable one day -- in one arena or another.

 

His fingers steal under the hem of her bra. Her breath catches a bit watching them. Those thick fingers could probably cover the whole of one of her breasts. She's already imagining his hand cupped around her. Or inside her. Two, maybe three fingers if she wants it to ache. She loves when it aches. But she's getting too carried away too soon. She nods and helps him peel the damn thing off so he can finally touch her skin-to-skin. He lowers himself for another kiss, and she won't begrudge him that. His heart is pounding so hard it thunders in her chest as much as his.

 

"You've got so many scars." One across her collarbone has his attention. "Are they all from troll hunts?"

 

"Yeah," she tells him. So many scars from so many hunts, she's almost lost count. He fastens his lips to the ridge of bone, feeling the raised flesh with his tongue. "But you've got some of your own, huh?" She touches his waist where she's sure she saw streaks of pale skin, like a ripple in his flesh. If he likes scars, she can do scars. He swallows, though; his throat wells and settles against her.

 

"Those-- um. Kind of, I guess." And he leaves it at that in favor of laying his tongue flat to her breast. Emil seems to like the feel of her between his lips, mouth inching around the swell of her breast and under. Thoughtful young man that he is, he's courteous enough to extend the same treatment to both sides. And between. And down to her stomach. For a moment his hands idle there, lingering above an old scar. Her oldest, probably, from her first hunt proper. Three gashes about her hip, long since grown over with pale, shining skin, and a darkened snarl of flesh below her gut. He lays his hand atop it, fingers and thumb superimposed above the marks. The one in front especially holds his attention; he traces it slowly, feeling out the ridges in her flesh.

 

"Wow," he murmurs. "Can I--?" He bends lower, eyes flicking up to gauge her response.

 

"Yeah," she tells him. The scars don't hurt. Neither does the memory of the hunt, not anymore. "Go for it." No reason not to. He's gentle when he mouths at the one in front. Almost reverent in doing so. It's rather sweet. She finds herself stroking him, curling that nice hair he's got around a finger and letting it unwind over and over solely for the excuse to keep on touching him as he devotes himself to charting out the history of her battles. Just as fascinating to him is the coarse hair between her legs. Not in a way like he wasn't expecting it, more like he can't seem to keep his fingertips from brushing over it even as he works his way down from her belly with his mouth. She thinks she knows where this is going -- so she lets her legs fall open for him.

 

He's riveted by the sight of her bared. Propped up on her elbow, she can see how his tongue flits out to his upper lip. He leans closer, then seems to think better of it, looking to her first.

 

"It's easy," she tells him. "Use your tongue. And start slow. Like we were doing before." When she was inside him. As he remembers, his eyelids flutter shut. Judging by the look on his face, that lesson sure stuck. First his lips find purchase upon her. Then the edge of his tongue, fleeting touches with just the tip. Points for being cautious, Sigrun thinks, but there's such a thing as too careful. She rolls her hips up against him, and he takes the hint, pressing his tongue flush to her with each stroke. She could probably let him finish her like that if she wanted and consider it a good night's work on his part. But that's not the aim of this whole exercise.

 

"Hold up." Sigrun puts some space between them with a hand on his forehead once he's gotten her close enough. "That's good," she's careful to let him know. He needs to know. "You're doing great. There's just one more thing I want you to try. And I don't wanna be that far ahead of you when we start, you get me?"

 

They settle into place like they were before, with his hips between her legs. This time she helps him out of his clothes; they kick what's left to the floor. His cock's a nice, solid weight against her thigh. She's looking forward to having it fill her. It takes a bit of help from her to get him positioned, but the rest --when he eases into her steady and strong-- that's all him. A certified prodigy, comparatively. By the time his hips meet hers, his breath is coming shallow and uneven.

 

"You," he breathes. "You feel incredible." Satisfied with this position, Sigrun lies back against the pillows, a smile rising easily to her lips.

 

"Could say the same about you," she assures him. One leg secure around his waist helps angle him so beautifully inside her. "Again, start slow. Find a rhythm. Not so different from doing it yourself, right?"

 

Maybe it's the downside of teaching such an excellent soldier, but when he takes her advice, he takes it to the letter. He moves slow inside her and holds her close and while the pressure is heady and right, she's been kept on edge too long tonight to wait much more.

 

"I'm not," she has to remember to take a breath when he draws back, "Not made of glass, you know. We're good already. I'm not gonna break if you take it a little faster now." Emil shifts, bringing her hips higher -- his cock, deeper. Even more so than the need simmering in her gut, the look of intense concentration on his face burns.

 

"Is this okay?"

 

"That's-- that's more like it. Shit," she molds her palm to his cheek. "Like that. I wanna be sore for hours after this," she tells him. "And I want it to feel like _you_."

 

Emil almost whimpers, hand coming to rest over hers. Can't meet her eyes. He makes up for it by rocking into her the way she's asked, the power in his hips pushing her nearer and nearer and almost there--

 

"Yes," he gasps. "Yes, Captain--"

 

"That's right." Her legs are secure around him. "'cause you're mine."

 

"Yours--" The fabric beside her ear groans in his grasp. He's going to carve little holes in the sheets with his nails at this rate, but she can't find it in herself to care.

 

"My strong right arm."

 

"Yours," he agrees. She comes apart with him repeating it to her like a prayer: "Yours, yours, yours."

 

As far as first-timers go, Emil's endurance isn't half bad. In that he holds out longer than she does. Not by much, but in fairness to first-timers it's better than what's to usually be expected. Like he was trying. Once he's felt her come, though, it's like something in him unravels as well. A few weak thrusts more and he's shuddering in her arms. She strokes his back until he's ridden it out. Until he's steadied once again and can stretch out beside her.

 

"Did you mean that," he asks, his head pillowed on her arm and one hand resting on her waist. Right above the scar he liked so much. That doesn't escape her attention. "What you said, about being your right arm?" It's such an odd question it catches her off guard, in a way that makes her want to laugh at the very peculiarity of it.

 

"Why wouldn't I?" 'Kid', she almost drops in at the end as an afterthought, but he's not a kid and she can't call him that and she can't laugh at his strange questions yet either. He's young and he's vulnerable and it would eat at him inside. She remembers how it feels. That kind of trust needs to grow on its own. "You're my right-hand warrior, aren't you?" She wouldn't say it if it weren't true.

 

"Yeah," he says like he can't believe it but wants so badly to. "I'm yours," he promises. "For as long as you'll have me."

 

For that, she just has to kiss him.

 

"At ease, soldier," she swears in turn. "We've got plenty of time."


End file.
